Crusade
by Bronze Cat
Summary: Before his story turned to legend, before his legacy became nothing more than elitism and bigotry, before his friends and he built their sanctuary, he was just a man. Once he was a boy called Sal. Once he was a soldier known as the Green Serpent. Once he was a teacher named Professor Slytherin. *AU due to timeline changes*
1. From Fen

**Welcome to my telling of the story of Salazar Slytherin and the founding of Hogwarts! This will be slightly AU since I really don't know much about 10th century Britain so I have decided to move the founding of Hogwarts to the 12th century. My reasons are simple; the political situation in Britain and Europe was difficult in the early 12th century - with a civil war known as the Anarchy going on in England and Normandy and the Second Crusade happening in the rest of Mainland Europe and the Middle East. This was also the very beginning of the persecution of witches and this whole situation has given me a rather interesting idea for a plot. So, hopefully you can forgive me moving quite a significant date in Harry Potter history by two whole centuries. :P**

**Warning - this fic will contain some things that could be perceived as Christian-bashing. This is _not_ the case. I am merely trying to portray the attitude to witches and wizards during this time period. **

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><p><em>Crusade:<br>1) a war fought by Christians against Muslims, often in Palestine, in the 11th, 12th, 13th, and 17th centuries.  
>2) a long and determined attempt to achieve something that you believe in strongly<em>.

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><p>The three children hiding in the reeds of the fen paused for a moment. The youngest let out an anxious giggle which caused his older sister to shush him harshly. The other boy parted the reeds slowly and all three sighted their quarry. The boy they were hunting had his back to them. He was kneeling a few yards away from them and making those peculiar hissing noises again. He turned slightly and they saw the adder in his hands.<p>

"Is he _talking _to it?" the girl whispered, her mouth twitching with derision.

Her little brother plunged his hands into the waters of the fen and scraped together some mud. He looked to his companions for approval and then heaved the mud into the hair. It hit the other boy square in the back of the head.

"Devil spawn!" the eldest boy jeered. He shot out of the reeds and shoved the other boy over so he fell face first into the water.

The other two scrambled from the reeds and joined him. They pinned him down and tried to hold him as he struggled. This was not the first time that they had tried this and it ended the same way as the previous attempts; a great force struck the three of them and they were sent flying back from their victim.

He sat up, quite calmly, spat out a mouthful of fen water and pushed his dark hair away from his eyes. "If I am the Devil Spawn then really you should not antagonise me," he said coolly. "And this is becoming quite tiresome. Leave me alone and find another to terrorise."

"Why should we? You are of ill stock and the entire village knows it, even your witch of a mother!" the girl sneered.

He had turned to leave but her words stalled him. He turned back to face them, a dangerous glint in his eye. He threw his arms wide and began to speak in his guttural, hissing language. His hand moved and he pointed at each of them in turn, his speech emphasising as his finger landed upon them.

They scattered, lobbing a few cries of "Witch!" and "Demon Spawn!" over their shoulders.

He sighed and turned to scan the reeds beside him.

"_Sorry. I didn't mean to drop you_," he said.

The adder poked its head out and regarded him thoughtfully. "_It was no issue,_" it replied, "_but you may want to rethink your insults. I do not understand why the hatchlings left you._"

"_They do not speak our tongue. To them it was as meaningless as the wind through the fen reeds._"

That seemed to satisfy the snake. "_Swift strikes to you, Man-hatchling,"_ it said. It bowed its head and then vanished back into the undergrowth.

"Swift strikes to you as well," he muttered in the human tongue before he waded from the fen and made his way back home. It was only a small cottage on the outskirts of the village but to him it could be a castle. He loved the moment when he crested the small hill on the road and saw it. He liked the way the smoke curled from the chimney stack, he liked the chickens milling around the door, he liked the heat pouring from the open door of his father's workshop, he liked the oak tree that cast its shadow over the house.

His mother was bent over her pestle, working furiously, but she dropped everything as he entered.

"Salazar! What happened to you?" she cried.

"Ambush in the fens again," he said flatly. Her brow furrowed with concern and she lifted her cauldron off the fire. Turning her full attention to her son, she began to strip him of his wet clothes. When he was warm and dry again, she took him in her arms and held him close. He wriggled slightly as her long, dark hair tickled his cheek but she didn't let him go and he had no choice but to relax into her embrace.

"Oh, Sal," she sighed. His fingers reached out and played with the locket around her neck.

Neither of them moved as his father entered, a dark expression on his face.

"What has happened?" he asked of his wife.

"The village children attacked Sal in the fens again," she said quietly. His father's grey eyes, the very same flinty colour as his, watched him carefully.

"And did you fight back?" he asked.

"Yes Father. I struck them with magic, but only because I would have died if I didn't," Sal answered, staring at the rushes between his father's feet. His father sighed and took a seat at the worn kitchen table.

"Sal, you can't, even to save your life. What does the first law of the Order of Merlin state?"

"_Thou shalt not use the magick of thy birthright to strike thine Muggle kin,"_ Sal answered dutifully. "But Father, they call me a monster and throw mud at my head. I do not antagonise them, I don't even speak to them! I only go to the fens to speak with the adders! _They_ are the ones who follow me there!"

"We have magical blood, Salazar. We are greater than the Muggles but, because of this, we have to be vigilant around them. They are prone to fits of jealousy caused by our abilities and they do not understand us. It is very easy to hate that which you do not understand," his father said.

"And you should not speak Parseltongue where the others can hear you," his mother added. "If you wish to practice, practice with your father."

He sniffed and continued to fiddle with his mother's locket.

There was a crash from outside and his father looked around.

"Slytherin! Show yourself!" a voice roared. His father frowned and reached for his sword belt. Belting it and loosening the blade in the sheath, he stepped towards the door. Sal's mother pushed him off her lap and went to join her husband in the doorway.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" his father asked. Sal crouched down and, through his father's legs, he saw some of the villagers.

"Slytherin, where is your brat?" one of them demanded. "He's laid a curse upon our children!"

"I imagine there has been some mistake," his father said.

"No mistake! He chanted at our children in an evil tongue; he is the Devil incarnate!" someone shouted.

"A mistake indeed," his mother snapped. "Our words are Latin; the language of your beloved church! If he had cursed your children then it would have been in the same tongue as your priests!"

He began to tremble. He had not told his parents how he had yelled at the other children in Parseltongue.

"Heretics!" another person shouted and his mother's shoulders stiffened. She pushed past her husband and took a few steps outside.

"Yes, I'm a heretic!" she shouted. "I have always made it clear that I am a Woods Witch, a follower of the Old Gods, but can I remind you that this _heretic_ has saved all of you from illnesses and brought all of your precious children into this world! Do not dare to reject me or my family!"

"Slytherin, take your woman to heel!" the first person said coldly.

"Why? I agree with everything she just said. All of you own weapons or tools made by me and imbibed with my spells. You are all hypocrites; you freely take magical help when it suits you but as soon as it threatens you you will have nothing to do with it!" he snarled. "Leave us be!"

The crowd dispersed, albeit grudgingly so.

His parents waited until they had all left before turning back to the house. His mother grasped his father's wrist and momentarily whispered something to him. He nodded and they suddenly both looked at their son.

Salazar stood slowly and stared back at them. His mother looked like she was about to cry and he had never seen his father look so solemn.

That night, they pulled him from his bed and dressed him in his warmest clothes. When he asked them questions, they did not answer but they did constantly glance through the windows of the house.

Finally, his father sat him down and presented him with a sword.

"I'm a metalcaster, Sal, as you know. I have been trained to imbibe steel and other metals with spells of strength and other qualities and they make for the finest weapons and tools, surpassed only by those of Goblin-make. This was the masterpiece I produced when I had finished my education. I want you to take it."

Sal drew the sword. It was much finer than anything his father had made for the villagers or even the local lord. It was too heavy for his underdeveloped arms but he could tell it was beautifully balanced. The sharp edge of the blade shone when he turned it to and fro and he could see the runes of protection and strength inscribed along the length. Two snakes of vibrant green sprouted from the pommel and twisted together to make the hilt. It was, all together, a beautiful weapon and he wished he had the necessary skill to bear it.

"Father, I can't take this. This is a king's sword," he breathed.

His father chuckled. "I'm flattered you think so, Sal, but the King probably bears one forged by someone with far greater skill than me. Promise me you will learn how to bear it."

He did so.

His mother had had tears in her eyes as she watched this exchange but she wiped them away as Sal sheathed the sword.

"Here, Sal. I want you to have this," she said, unfastening the locket from around her neck. "Think of us when you look at it."

Panic flooded through him at her words. "Why? Mother, what is happening?" he asked. They did not answer, only looked nervously towards the window again.

They led him outside to where his father's horse, a docile chestnut mare, was saddled and laden with provisions. His father lifted him onto her back and his mother pressed her locket into his hand.

"Go Sal," she whispered. "Ride hard and don't look back."

"But... but..." he stammered.

"Go, son! Before the villagers get here! Find other wizards, you will be safe with them. Avoid the Muggles and ask the snakes if you need help!" his father said and then slapped the mare on her rump.

She trotted off into the night, leaving Sal to stare over his shoulder at his parents and the house he had grown up in. Why were they sending him away?!

He reined in the horse a short distance from the house and tied her to a tree. As quiet as a shadow, he crept back along the path. A scream echoed in the still night and he jumped. As they screamed again, he broke into a run. That was his mother!

Pausing at the crest in the path where he could see his home, he bit back a wail of horror. The villagers had swarmed around the cottage and had both his parents restrained. Bright orange flames began to lick at the thatch of the roof and he saw some of the men fanning the flames to spread them faster. His father's forge doors were torn apart and the fire stoked until it too burst forth.

"Burn the heretics and their demon spawn!" a voice shouted and, with that simple command, his parents were tossed inside their burning home like logs on a fireplace. He couldn't move; his feet were rooted to the spot. Why had his parents not fought back?! Why had they not used magic? Curse Merlin and his Orders, his parents had been overwhelmed by this rabble of Muggles and left unable to defend themselves!

He stared in horror at the inferno that had been his home, at the column of black smoke twisting into the sky, at the chickens running in distress from the flames before being caught by the mob and flung into the blaze too, the red maw where his father had once worked at his anvil, at the shadow the old oak tree cast over the villagers - masking and protecting his mother and father's murderers.

They thought he had died too, from their shouts of glee. They had caught his parents but assumed he had still been asleep in the house.

But Salazar Slytherin had lived and he intended to carry on living. His hand opened and he looked at his mother's locket and the red welts in his flesh caused by his tight grip. His thumb stroked the _S_ engraved on the front while his other hand stroked the hilt of his father's sword at his hip.

He would never forget this first of the many atrocities of Muggles he witnessed.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! <strong>

**The Order of Merlin is an award in modern-day Potter but I found a thing on the Wiki saying they were originally laws set in place to protect Muggles and stop wizards using magic against them. Sal's parents were also burned as heretics like most witches and wizards then since the crime of witchcraft didn't really exist. **

**Leave me a review telling me what you thought and I shall hopefully see you in the next chapter for Sal's next steps down his path.**


	2. To Valley Broad

**Thanks for reviews and follows last time! Hope you enjoy this chapter too!**

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><p>He had been riding west, Sal knew that much. He had avoided villages and towns as much as he could and spent every evening sleeping wrapped in his cloak under a tree.<p>

Seek other wizards, his father had told him. That was all well and good but he had never even seen another wizard. He had lived his entire life in one village and had probably not gone much further than ten miles away before. The local town hardly had a vibrant wizarding community. The few times he had accompanied his mother there, the townspeople had looked upon the pair of them with barely concealed contempt and looked over her potions and charms with the same manner.

The only wizarding community he knew of for definite was in London. His father had learned his trade as a metalcaster there and he often spoke of a street known only to the wizards where they could gather and trade their wares. Unfortunately, Sal had no idea where London was. He only knew he had been travelling west because that was where the sun set every day.

Slowly the landscape had changed from the flatlands and fens he knew so well to rolling countryside of small hills and woodland. He had enjoyed the ride but slowly the land had changed again. Now it was valley after valley of beautiful scenery. This he was not appreciating so much, since the weather had taken a turn for the worse and he had eaten the last of his provisions that morning.

He had no choice but to keep pressing on even as the wind rose and the rain came down in sheets. His bare hands turned into blocks of ice upon the reins and icy water was trickling down the inside of his hood. The light was fast fading but he could see nowhere where he could make a rudimentary shelter to spend the night in.

Nowhere, save for the twinkling lights of a building in the distance. Even if they were Muggles, he could plead hospitality and leave before morning light. He turned the horse towards the lights and squeezed her flanks.

She trotted off obediently. The lights twinkled in the dark but they never seemed to near. He gave the horse another nudge and she sped up again. Still the lights of the house seemed no closer. His hood fell back as he kicked the horse into a full blown gallop and he screamed in desperation as the heavy rain made the lights flicker and then vanish. He could see no longer and he could barely hold on to the reins.

Suddenly, he had slipped from the saddle and was bouncing on the grass. Pain shot through his arm and then the world went black.

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><p>As he came to, he kept his eyes shut. He was lying in what felt like the comfiest bed he had ever been in. One arm felt bandaged and twinged with pain when he tried to move it but he inched the other one out underneath the blankets. He didn't reach the edge of the bed.<p>

He opened his eyes.

This bed was huge and the room beyond it was bigger than the house he had just left. The walls were bare stone but had been covered in beautiful tapestries of yellow and black that matched the embroidery of the blankets upon the bed.

"Ah, I see you are awake," a cheerful voice said from his left. He turned and stared at the smiling face of the girl seated on a stool by his bed. She placed her embroidery to one side and stood up. He tried to wriggle away as she leaned over the bed towards him. She glared at him and then peered into his eyes.

"Well, you seem to be fine. Father was quite worried when he found you lying by yourself in the valley," she said, her green eyes flicking around his face. She seemed satisfied and left his bedside to stoke the fire in the massive fireplace.

He watched her carefully. She was about his age and dressed in a simple black dress. She dusted her hands off and sat back on her haunches. Some of her strawberry-blonde hair fell into her face and she pushed it back behind an ear.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"In the house of Hufflepuff," she answered in her peculiar accent. "Deep in the beautiful green valleys of Wales."

She stood and moved across the room to open the shutters. "I'm Helga, Sir Hufflepuff's daughter," she added. As the shutters were thrown wide, he saw the green valley he had been passing through the night before. He had somehow made it to the house he had seen in the distance. And it would seem like this girl was one of his hosts.

"What kind of a name is that? Hufflepuff!" he snorted. He tried to sit up and gasped in pain.

"It is my name and I like it very much," she said primly. "And how dare you mock me for it. Unless you are named John Smith then I shall guess that yours is as unusual as mine."

"It's Sal. Salazar Slytherin," he admitted. She giggled at that.

"And you say my name was funny?" she chuckled, tucking the errant piece of hair behind her ear again. "I think I shall take my leave of you for now. You need more rest and my father will want to know you have awakened."

She left in a swirl of skirts. As the door shut behind her, there was a clunk from the lock. He struggled out from under the blankets and scuttled across to the door. Yes, she had locked the door behind her. Wonderful.

He knelt down and pressed an eye to the key hole. If only he could remember the words of opening spell his mother taught him.

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><p>Sir Randolph Hufflepuff was a tall, imposing man with a once powerful body now given over to middle age and too much food and ale. He had the same piercing green eyes as his daughter and no hair on his head save for his bushy eyebrows and luxuriant moustache. Stroking this moustache was a favoured relaxation technique for him and he was doing so now as he studied the boy he had found lying in the dirt.<p>

He did not know exactly what to make of the child. His pale skin and thin face made him look almost sickly and he was not helped by the dark hair falling across one eye. Helga had fixed him up as best she could and talked to him when he came around. Eventually, he had felt strong enough to see his host and was now sat opposite Sir Randolph in their dining hall.

"So, m'boy," he said eventually. "I hope you have been made comfortable?"

"Yes, sir, very," the boy answered.

"That accent... south-east England if I am any judge? You are a long way from home," he said. The boy blinked.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I wouldn't know. I lived where I lived and then I had to leave. Your daughter told me I was in Wales but I don't know where that is," he said.

Helga had slipped through a door while he was speaking. She crossed the room in a few short steps before setting the tray in her hands on a table and picking up her father's tankard.

"Guests first, Helga," he reminded her gently. She blushed but quickly picked up the bowl of stew and offered it to their guest. The boy accepted it and began to gulp it down.

"It's good. Thank you," he said.

"Thank you, Sal," she smiled, taking a seat at her father's feet.

"So, Sal," Sir Randolph said. "Why did you leave home? Where are your parents?

Sal stopped eating. "My parents are dead, sir. I left home because there was nothing left for me there. And, if all is well and good, I will be taking leave of your hospitality soon. I need to find people like me."

"Like you?" Helga asked. "What do you mean, like you?"

He hesitated and looked down at his stew. How could he possibly explain? These Muggles were nothing like the villagers. They had taken him in and patched him up. They had shown him nothing but kindness but he knew he couldn't stay. He had to find other wizards.

Sir Randolph smiled suddenly and twitched that wonderful moustache of his. "You are always welcome here in the House of Hufflepuff. We would never turn away a guest," he said.

He flicked his hand towards his tankard lying on the table where Helga had left it. It rose and floated towards him steadily. Sal's mouth fell open and Helga giggled.

"I think, my dear, that Master Salazar has been searching for people like us," Sir Randolph said.


	3. Wandlore

"..._Let not thy Muggle-kin see thine magick for they shall... they shall..._"

Sal faltered and glared at the words on the parchment.

"Covet," Helga prompted helpfully. He frowned and pushed the book across the table.

"You need to practice reading more often," she said.

"Why? Neither of my parents could read and they managed perfectly fine," he said. Now it was her turn to frown and she pulled the book towards her.

It had been six years since her father had found the boy lying injured and in that time he had become one of the family. Helga was an only child and, although her father loved her dearly, Sir Randolph was thrilled to have a boy he could raise almost as a son. His daughter was firmly involved in the running of his household. She oversaw the kitchens and the team of house-elves who cleaned and tidied their home and cheerily showed no interest in the arts of war. He longed to teach her how to fight but she refused to learn beyond a few basic spells.

Sal gave him the opportunity to train a warrior as fine as himself. Helga had been in charge of the boy's education thus far, something he cared for very little.

And now he pushed back his stool from the table, stood with a huff and retrieved his father's sword from its place by the door. Leaving a protesting Helga with her books, he walked through the corridors of Hufflepuff Manor until he reached the main hall. He unsheathed the sword and walked to the centre of the room, swinging the blade wildly.

There was a creak to his left. He whirled, his blade came up and it met Sir Randolph's with a clang.

"Dammit, Sal, m'boy, you are getting too good," the old knight noted.

"No, sir, you are just getting too old," he said cheekily. One of Sir Randolph's incredible eyebrows rose towards the ceiling and he moved. Sal was pushed back as he advanced mercilessly, his sword a blur of steel.

"Now, m'boy, what was that?" he asked when he had the young man pinned against a table. "This old man is getting a little hard of hearing."

They danced back and forth across the room in a whirl of clothes and blades. Sal had kept his father's last wish; under the tutelage of Sir Randolph he was now an expert swordsman. The knight had also taught him how to properly ride and other arts of war. He was a formidable warrior - but he still couldn't beat his teacher.

Sir Randolph spun, throwing all his weight into the blow. There was no way Sal could have stopped it with his own blade. It was headed straight for his swordarm. Without thinking, he threw his other hand forward and yelled "Protego!"

His shield sprang up and Sir Randolph's sword collided with it in a shower of sparks. The impact was enough to knock the older man off his feet and send him sprawling on his back with a cry of "Bloody hell!"

A round of applause broke out from the doorway.

"Splendid, quite splendid!" an unfamiliar voice said. They turned to see a confused Helga next to a tiny woman. She was the one clapping, an almost childlike expression of delight on her face.

"I'm sorry, Father, she just barged in here with her retainers," Helga explained. Sir Randolph focused on the woman and then made a strangled noise.

"Your Highness," he gasped and threw himself on one knee.

The mysterious lady laughed airily and walked forward. She was barely taller than Sir Randolph's kneeling form and dressed rather exquisitely. A bejewelled hand was thrust into Sir Randolph's face and he kissed one of the rings respectfully.

"It has been a while, Randolph," she said. "I trust you are still loyal to my father and not the wretch that stole my throne?"

"Of course, your Highness," he said, staring deep into her eyes.

Sal cleared his throat and Helga glared at him. She made a small motion, _stop it!_

"Salazar, my darling Helga, I have the incredible honour to introduce her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Matilda, the true Queen of England and Normandy," Sir Randolph said.

Helga and Sal exchanged a look at that. Matilda was the daughter and only living child of the last king, Henry, but her cousin Stephen had claimed the throne on Henry's death. Sir Randolph, having been one of Henry's most loyal supporters, had not publicly declared allegiance to Stephen and had always mentioned that he thought Matilda to be the true monarch.

"I trust you have raised your children to believe in my right and not in my cousin," she said sharply.

"Of course, although, Salazar is regretfully not my blood. He is an orphan I took in some years past," he explained. "Both he and my daughter have just celebrated their fifteenth year."

She turned to him in a rustle of skirts and rushed towards him. He bowed politely and kissed her offered hand.

"Extraordinary," she breathed, fluttering her eyelashes at him. Since she was almost old enough to be his mother, this, along with her refusal to let go of his hand, made him feel rather uncomfortable.

"You say he is of common blood?" she asked Sir Randolph. When he confirmed it, albeit reluctantly, her eyes widened. "Extraordinary," she repeated. "I have never heard of the Gift being amongst the common folk. And yours is so strong..."

Sal freed his fingers from her grasp.

"There are many of us, your Highness," he said. "We are wide-spread, healers mostly, but we are there."

She turned to the small group of retainers crowded in the door behind Helga. "I want you to go out into the country! Seek out my people in the villages and taverns! Let them know that their true Queen supports them and knows the powers they bear!"

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><p>Matilda continued in this fashion for the duration of her stay. Sal tried to ignore her but she was always there; hovering in the doorway as he sparred with Sir Randolph or sitting quietly in the corner while he read with Helga. And always, she pressed him for details of the magical folk hidden amongst the Muggles. He could never tell her anything because he simply did not know. He told her what he knew about the magical community in London but that was all.<p>

He wasn't her only target; poor Helga also received a barrage of questions. She took Matilda to the kitchens and demonstrated some of the cookery and household spells she had invented. Matilda gasped and praised and promised Helga a place in her household when she took her throne. Helga nodded politely and rolled her eyes when the older woman turned away.

Safely behind the closed doors of Helga's rooms, she and Sal ranted to each other about this silly, demanding woman who clung to them so. They knew they could not say a word to Sir Randolph. He was far too much of a supporter of her.

One day, Matilda bid the two of them take a walk with her in the kitchen garden. They walked on either side of her and exchanged glances over her head as she whittled on about this and that.

"I want to thank both of you for making me so welcome," Matilda trilled as she examined one of the vegetable patches. "And I am happy to find such a powerful witch and wizard in the household of one of my loyal supporters. I would have you become even more powerful, if you are willing."

"More powerful? How?" Sal asked.

Matilda turned and smiled at them widely. From her sleeve, she drew a piece of wood.

"With one of these. A wand!" she said. "This is mine. My father commissioned it for me when I came of age. I want you to find one. I shall need all the magical help I can find when I overthrow my cousin."

She turned away and waved her wand. The roses on the wall trellis bloomed and Sal heard Helga give a small sigh of exasperation. It was winter; those roses were going to be dead by next week now.

"So, how do we procure wands?" Helga asked.

"There is a wandmaker in London... Ollivander's is the name I think..." Matilda said, tapping her wand against her cheek. "But I wouldn't know. It is something you must find out for yourselves."

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><p>"Find out for yourselves. Find out for yourselves!" Sal raged later that evening in the peace of Helga's room. "Of course, we'll just stroll into London and ask for the wandmakers. Easiest quest in the world!"<p>

Helga watched him pace up and down her room and then sighed and returned to her book. "Well, before we even go to find the wandmaker, we need a magical core. According to this, we take the core to the wandmaker and they match us with a wood."

Sal sighed and took the chair opposite her. "A magical core?"

She nodded.

"Anything from a magical creature will do but this book theorises that the three most powerful cores are phoenix feathers, unicorn hairs and dragon heartstrings. If we are going to make wands, we should try to make them as powerful as possible."

Sal reached out and took the book from her. "What do you want as your core?" he asked.

"I was thinking a unicorn hair," she said. "Unicorns are such beautiful creatures - I'd be honoured to receive a wand with their hair."

She blushed as he grinned at her.

"Well, I want a dragon heartstring by that logic," he said. "Dragons are dangerous bastards; remember that Green that terrorised the local village last year?"

"Of course you are going to want to take down a dragon," Helga sighed.

"And not just any dragon!" he said brightly. "I want a Hebridean Black. They are more ferocious than Welsh Greens."

Helga sighed. "Do we really have to go to Scotland? These wands better be worth it."

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><p><strong>AN- Apologies for my inconsistency in updating! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a review telling me what you think!<strong>

**Matilda was a real person. For the purposes of my story, she is a witch and her cousin Stephen is a Muggle so we have magical folk against non-magical folk. Uh-oh! **

**Also, at the time of this story there were very few wands. To get a wand, you had to get your own core and take it to the wandmaker, as detailed above. My headcanon is that wandless magic used to be the norm and magic with wands was more powerful but as wands became more commonplace, this was subverted and wandless magic was perceived as being more difficult and more powerful. To bear a wand was a symbol of power, and Sal and Helga are only going to be fifteen when they get theirs. I thought this was appropriate for two of the Founders. ;)**


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